The Tragic Difference Between Literal & Metaphorical
by Writing Sins and Tragedies
Summary: "When John said that Sherlock fell for him, he wished he meant it metaphorically." Short angsty Johnlock drabble set during "The Reichenbach Fall."


_**Author's Note: Hello again, Dear Readers! Yes, as it might surprise you, I'm not dead (I might be after the season ten premiere later this month, but we'll cross that bridge when we get there...), and I've returned with a new Johnlock one-shot. Originally, I wrote and published this on tumblr, but I decided to edit it some and post it on here as well. **__**This is my first attempt of branching out of the SPN fandom fanfiction-wise, so I decided to start by writing for my second favorite series: BBC's Sherlock. **_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters nor their modern portrayal in any way. The characters, of course, belong to ACD and their protayal is thanks to the creators of the television series, Gatiss and Moffat. But still, hopefully I did the high-functioning sociopath and his loyal soldier justice.**_

_**Important: Set during the final scene of "The Reichenbach Fall."**_

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When John said that Sherlock fell for him, he wished he meant it metaphorically. He wished he meant that Sherlock had fell _in love_ with him—that one day out of the blue, between scurrying all throughout London trying to find a man wearing khaki shorts and a coffee-stained striped tie (_just another one of Sherlock's crack-pot theories that had the uncanny possibility of being right,_ John thought with nothing but exasperated endearment), Sherlock's body stiffened with realization as he abruptly turned around to face his companion, hands grasping the sides of John's face as he pulled him up into a startling, bruising kiss.

"What was that for?" John wished he had the opportunity to ask breathlessly after Sherlock had finally released him.

"Science." Sherlock would say flatly, but his eyes would be gleaming with vulnerability and longing. John wished he could have laughed and kissed the doubt off the smart-arse's face.

John wished he meant that as their tragic romance full of blood-stained riddles and clever psychopaths blossomed with every mercifully passing day, he could have seen the way Sherlock's face would soften, as if it were gradually occurring to him that their doomed relationship just might make it. John wished he meant that Sherlock would slowly stop seeing John as just a living skull to talk to and the ever occasional equal and start seeing him as something brilliant—something beautiful.

John wished he meant that Sherlock would de-freeze his heart from its icy prison and let it pulse to life again, giving it to John in that careless, indifferent way of his as he pretended it wasn't a big deal even though that was the farthest from the truth. John wished he meant that Mycroft received the ultimate bait to get a rise out of his ever emotionless little brother, and even though Sherlock would complain loudly that he was more trouble than he was worth, he would whisper into John's neck later that night in bed so softly, each time John would think he just dreamed it, _"Don't you ever leave me." _

John wished he meant he had the opportunity to change the great man that was Sherlock Holmes into his lover just as easily as he had changed him into his best friend. John wished he meant that they had the chance to do all of these things if only that one simple phrase was only metaphorical.

But it wasn't. It was anything but as John looked up and saw Sherlock—brave, brilliant, beautiful Sherlock—teetering on the edge of a building, his cellphone pressed tightly against his ear as he told John that he was a fraud, a liar. That he filled with nothing but cheap tricks.

His choked words were saying all of this in a hushed, reluctant hiss, but his tone was conveying a silent apology and declaration that this was sadly the end of the game. He was apologizing because he thought he lost, and John didn't know how to tell him that he was the biggest winner out of them all. John didn't know how to do anything except shake his head in childish denial and plead Sherlock to _please stop, don't do this, I believe in you. _

And as their eyes met one last time—mournful gunmetal blue meeting bewildered soft brown, John knew he meant it both ways. So with that astounding realization bouncing around in his head, he watched helplessly as Sherlock jumped.

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**_Author's Note: Any sort of feedback is greatly appreciated and cherished, whether it be by review, pm, follow, or favorite._**


End file.
